


I am

by narath



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arlathan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 16:48:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20763659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narath/pseuds/narath
Summary: Solas removes his vallaslin





	I am

I am.

The more he touches, the less he sleeps. He wants to be young still, he detests her voice.  
He doesn’t understand the appeal anymore, the benefit for all. It’s lost - nothing but a faulty mechanic in their society.

“To the inevitable and troubling freedom, we are committed.”

Awake, wide-eyed, hands-on the tarnished copper of the washing bowl, his weight doubles as his eyes searches his face in the mirror.  
Eyebrow arched, disgust in the shape he forms; his heart pounds let me walk, let me walk, let me walk.  
It’s not as if he hasn’t told the story a million times by now; the sound of his voice like a broken record, drawling in the drunken hours of every day, repeating the only thing he feels as truth;

Take the weapon from your back and use it to keep you afloat.  
Roll your eyes to the back of your head as you swallow your freedom whole.  
You will know when you feel it, it feels like you’re dreaming; no longer chained or commanded, part redeemed, the other disdained. It doesn’t have to be this way.

He has been awake for too long, memories too many for one man; memories contorted, distorted with false hope.  
With a flicker of unbided devotion; to be free as the word itself implies, certain of the feeling it promotes; he sets his hands to cover his face, hiding the deep forest green that rests there, on the hill of his cheeks.  
He has been lost for too long, he has been complicit for too long.  
With a silent mumbling, a deep reach into the fade which he holds as his ultimate truth; he invites the silent whispers of magic to wash over his face, creating the only source of light in the room, reflecting on crystal marble.  
He tastes the feeling; smiling a toothy smile as he feels it taking root under his vallaslin, dancing in the flesh of his face.  
The light dies. His eyes remain closed.  
He feels different, sturdy.

New.

As he opens his eyes - confident and knowing, he meets his own face in the mirror and time stops. He stares.

Nothing has changed, nothing has removed the roots of her vallaslin, he is still a slave, he still carries a cover over his heart, he is still placed under her reign, he still is nothing more than hers.  
The washingbowl clatters loudly as he swipes his hands across the surface, as it falls to the floor it’s echo rings loud against the walls of his silence, louder as it swirls to settle on the marble floor.  
He tries again, eyes closed, magic light making him see stars from behind his eyelids.

Nothing.

He tries again, with more force, with tears pricking his eyes, with a question booming like a headache; will I be free, will I ever be. Will I be me?

As the hours pass, turn into days, every attempt makes his back ache, his hands sore.  
He has cried many times, too proud to admit; his eyes puffy with a rose-red sheen, he hasn’t left his home in days and locked his shame within the home of his home, in his angry, beating heart.

He still leans on the counter in front of the mirror, the palms of his hands pressing down, knuckles white, wood creaking. Light is pouring through his tall windows, distilled by the crystal planes turning the light magically white, dust flying like fireflies in it’s rays.  
It doesn’t take much to decide to try - try again - now with a spell he incinerates with.  
Let it be gone, he thinks. Even if it takes me with it.  
It takes him a while to fill his lungs with air, with courage, as he calculates and repeats the motion of placing an equal amount of force while blending it with healing; impossible, one would say, but he doesn’t know the word.  
He places his hands over his tired face; feels the burn of his hot spell. He invites more heat, feels his eyelashes curl, it’s too much, it’s-

“Fuck!” His throat feels raw from uttering his first word in weeks, the heat of the spell ate his courage in one bite. He walks over to his bed, tired of his reflection.

He refuses to cry, calls himself a coward. There is only anger in his veins. He stomps back to the mirror, ready to scream, tries again, this time biting down on a piece of wood, ripped from the frame of one of his old, decaying paintings of her.  
He starts with the searing heat of his spell, forces a healing stream of cold blue to blend in with it. His muffled growling stiffens every muscle in his body as saliva drips from the corners of his mouth and he prays, he prays to the unknown, not for his face to remain intact but to remove it, to remove her, to remove what isn’t him. Bitter tears flow through his closed eyes; evaporating as soon as they reach his cheeks, sizzling. He melts, stops, forces more healing through his hands, fighting the urge to give in to the fate that was determined for him.  
It takes a long time, his mana already diminished; the pain so immense he has no other choice but to stop; as his whole body trembles with weak shivers, he stills the magic, not daring to lower his hands. He opens his eyes carefully within the palms of his hands; examines the feel of his eyelids struggling to unstick from his cheeks. As soon as they do, he closes them again. He ghosts his fingertips against the skin of his chin, up to his brow; it’s uneven, wet, he cringes against the naked pain. He lets his hand fall down to hang limply against his side, defeated, empty.  
He doesn’t open his eyes even as he goes to crawl into bed, welcomes the cool silk of his bedsheets instead. He sleeps for three days.

As he wakes, he wishes he could sleep forever, dreamlessly, ironically.

He dreamt of success, of green plains and blue skies, of the smell of water. Now, he touches his face.

Maybe it worked.

He prods the sensitive skin of his forehead, still raw and oozing with fluid, and steps to the mirror to face the outcome, dragging a wooden stool with him to carry his weight as he rests on it in front of the basin; his forearms crossed on the surface, long legs tangled under.  
He looks into the mirror - as best as he can - his eyes still puffed and irritated. His skin is horrible, uneven, burnt and stripped of its protective layer; he looks grotesque but he smiles and he doesn’t mind the sting of salt from his tears as he looks for traces of her vallaslin; not finding any, not even a whisper of it.  
His shoulders bob as he settles in the space of crying and chuckling, mind racing for this is the starting point, the words he eats as his truth is served; he needs to confirm - nay, scream - to the others, to the unjustly diminished that the time is now, it is here.  
He rushes to the door; his first battle fought as he decides to throw on a cloak on to hide the healing of his face - of his freedom - and sets off to revive a rebellion he once thought was lost.

I am, his minds shouts as he races down the winding stairs of the tower. I am, I am , I am.


End file.
